


Apoptosis

by an_aphorism



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Emotional Sex, Kissing, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Post-Episode: s03e13 The Wrath of the Lamb, Seduction, dinner with a bang
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-24
Updated: 2016-12-24
Packaged: 2018-09-11 17:21:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,442
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8999881
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/an_aphorism/pseuds/an_aphorism
Summary: “And you’d like to know if that night fulfilled my greatest desire?”Hannibal did not fully turn toward him, but his eyes were ever watchful. “I think it would be useful to know if your ruminations are a cultivation of wish fulfillment.”Will laughs, and he hopes his smile isn’t as disgustingly fond as it feels. “Why Dr. Lecter, are you afraid you have left me unfulfilled?”





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [RoseCal](https://archiveofourown.org/users/RoseCal/gifts).



> Hannigram Holiday Gift Exchange for the lovely Rosekay2016 on tumblr! She wanted chocolate, kissing, NSFW and murder husbands, I hope this works!!

The very moment that Hannibal can stand up again for any length of time, he’s gone down the walk and into the quiet countryside. Will notices this only after he’s dragged himself out of bed and to the bathroom out of desperate thirst.

 He avoids his own face in the shoddy bathroom mirror and cups his hands under the faucet to slurp up water. It’s unusual to wake up without Hannibal on the bed beside him, they’ve done little more than rest and change bandages since Chiyoh dumped them on Cuban sand.

 Will turns off the faucet and wipes the back of his hand across his mouth, forgetting himself. The wound on his cheek throbs sharply, a reminder of Chiyoh’s boney fingers sewing stitches into his face. She hadn’t been gentle or patient with either of them at any point.

 Still, they are alive and safe only due to her pulling them out of the ocean and secreting them away on boat.

 He shuffles back out of the bathroom and through the bedroom, lured by the void of presence and sound. In their tiny living room, there is no Hannibal. On the worn down table a scrap of paper has been propped up against a mug.

  _William,_

_I’ve gone to get the shopping, I will be back shortly._

_-H_

Will pulls the chair out from the table and drops himself into it. Already he feels winded, he can’t imagine how Hannibal has the strength to walk into town. So much of him still hurts, and it’s not just the brick and mortar.

 He picks up the paper, fingers running over the carefully torn edges. It’s easier to think about Hannibal when he isn’t present, when it doesn’t feel as though his thoughts are about to be plucked straight out of his head as he thinks them.

 They haven’t done much talking since the fall. Not about that moment on the top of the cliff, not about the desperate way they clung to each other on the plunge down, not even about their rebirth of salt water and sand here in Cuba.

 It’s hard to know what it all means, hard to know what they’re doing or where they’re going from here. It feels like a holding pattern, like purgatory, but Will can’t tell if they’re going to the inferno or paradise.

 Everything is itchy, both in his scabbing skin and in his brain. He feels like a man out of confession, fully realized and remade. The desire he felt at the top of the cliff is still burning just under his skin, simmering with the promise of what could be.  

 It should concern him, he wants to feel concerned with how quickly he fell right back into Hannibal, as if no time at all has passed. As if all their slights against each other washed away in the clash of those waves.

  Will supposes that they have. His last act was one of divine chance, casting them down into the sea and daring the Gods above to stop them from crawling back to shore. But here they still are, monsters clean from the ocean depths, hungry for more. The body count between them is staggering, but Will has never felt so at peace with all of it. He’s smoldering now, but it’s not with fear or fever.

 Suddenly, he wants Hannibal home. He wants to shatter the patient silence that’s settled between them. He wants to recapture that moment on the cliff, the blood and brimstone of being one gasping breath from oblivion.

 So Will waits, and waits, and waits for Hannibal’s return. At some point the chair gets boring so Will gets up and looks through the kitchen pantry. There’s little more than canned soup, crackers and rice. It’s what they’ve been living on for days, and Will is certainly not going to eat now if Hannibal is bringing back something better.

 He crosses to the front of the house and looks out the window. It’s bright sunshine outside, has been for the last four days they’ve been in this house. Summer is waning though, so it’s warm in the house but not abysmally so. The air though is humid, heavy.

 Will sits on the couch and then slides down to laying on his back. There’s the soft sound of wind and birds, but nothing else happens as the minutes slide by. He closes his eyes and imagines Hannibal in the bed, fast asleep beside him. It’s a novelty in their new life that Will still hasn’t gotten used to. The pale fluttering of Hannibal’s eyelashes as he dreams, spinning an ache inside Will to touch. They haven’t yet, but Will has spent the last three mornings secreting glances of Hannibal asleep.

 At some point he must doze off, because the next moment Hannibal is there touching his shoulder. Will blinks awake.

 “Hello.” Hannibal’s smile is slight, but it reaches his eyes and makes him look unaccountably fond, soft. It’s a look Will’s been getting more and more, and it shifts a riot of butterflies in his chest.

 Will mimics back the expression. “Hey, you’re back.”

 “I am, were you concerned?” Hannibal is still bent into his space, but he pulls back a little and casts him a onceover glance.

 “You’re a wanted man.”

 This makes Hannibal laugh, “Ah, but not a reckless one.”

 Hannibal unfolds, and Will catches sight of a couple cloth bags behind him on the kitchen table.

 “That’s new.” Will doesn’t mean the groceries.

 Hannibal’s face does something very subtle that catches Will’s attention, but it’s gone the moment Will can focus on it. Wills sits up, trying to wake himself up more completely.

 “Perhaps this new world requires new behavior.” Hannibal turns and strides back to the kitchen. “Are you hungry?”

 He is, but Will doesn’t want to talk about food. He doesn’t want to spend another meal in superficial conversation when there is so much _more_ they need to address.

 “Hannibal.”

 The man has his back turned and is unpacking the bags of food. He doesn’t turn or pause, but his head tilts slightly. “Yes Will?”

 “Are we ever going to talk about it?”

 “Talk about what, exactly?”

 Will sighs, because Hannibal knows, but is going to make him say it. “Us, the cliff, the now, the—ah,” Will trips over how exactly to describe the thing between them.

 This fumbling interests Hannibal, who puts down a bag of rice before turning to Will properly. “Is it important we discuss it this moment?”

 “Uh, no,” Will is rethinking his earlier anticipation. Perhaps he was wrong, and Hannibal’s patience wasn’t really patience, but disinterest. “I just thought—“ Will waves his hand unhelpfully.

  “You thought correct,” Hannibal cuts in. “But I confess I did intend to do a modicum of wining and dining before approaching the subject.”

 It’s a stunningly forward statement for Hannibal, and Will feels the blush run hot up his neck. “Oh?”

 “Yes,” Hannibal says. “I am, after all, still a gentleman.”

 Will blinks and then licks his lips, Hannibal’s eyes flicker down to follow the motion. “So not _all_ new behaviors then?”

 Hannibal smiles, and it is not at all soft. His eyes are dark like liquid sin. “Oh no, certainly not.”

 Hannibal turns back to the groceries, but Will can feel his heart beginning to pound. It’s like all air has been sucked out of the room, and Will has the immediate urge to flee. He’s seen the same look on Hannibal as that night under the moonlight, drenched in blood. It’s overwhelmingly arousing in a way Will is not prepared for.

 In the kitchen, Hannibal begins prepping for dinner. Will takes the opportunity to excuse himself from the room, skin absolutely buzzing.

 Back in the bathroom again, Will makes a decision to shower.  He makes quick work of undressing, and avoids looking at any of his motivations for the choice. In the shower he ignores his half-hard cock and foregoes the shaving. When he’s finished he brushes the foul taste of sleep out his mouth and wipes the mirror clean of moisture.

 His hair is also a little long now, and the wet curls are as low as his cheeks. Will buffs the water out with a towel and then runs his fingers through them to style it the best he can. He wonders if he looks presentable enough, if the stitching across his cheek looks as ugly as he thinks it does. Hannibal hasn’t said anything about the wound.

 The few articles of clothing they have in this new life were also provided by Chiyoh, and because of this they are neither well-fitting nor elegant. Hannibal knows this, but Will still hates pulling on the worn tee shirt and jeans. He wants, stupidly enough, to look nice enough to be wined and dined.

 At the bathroom mirror again Will fidgets with his shirt, and then again with his hair. There’s nothing to be done for either.  The smell of food being cooked is beginning to waft into their bedroom and Will forces himself away from the mirror. The obsessing will do him no good, he has always been a man written in imperfections.

 Hannibal is still at the stove when Will exits the room. “What’re you cooking?”

 Hannibal slides chopped tomatoes off the cutting board and into the pan where Will can tell beef is cooking. He turns to look at Will, “Never ask, it spoils the surprise.”

 Will takes a seat the kitchen table because the couch is much too far from the kitchen. He feels almost giddy. “This is a surprise?”

 Hannibal turns back to the food, adding spices to the pan, but there’s something about his body language that tells Will he’s still deftly attuned to him. “Every meal is an opportunity for experience, for pleasure, for surprise.”

 Will has to grin at that, turning his head and hiding it behind his fist. Hannibal is frankly a ridiculous man. They’re murderous fugitives living in a threadbare shack in the middle of a Caribbean nowhere, and Hannibal is making rice and beef into high-art.

 And yet, Will is charmed. Beyond charmed. “Of course,” he says once he’s gotten his mouth under control.

 They don’t say anything further after that, and Hannibal spends another fifteen minutes cooking before dinner is finished. Hannibal brings a pitcher of water to the table first along with glasses and silverware. Everything is old, slightly battered, but the effort at presentation is everywhere. The sun is beginning to set, so a pair of pillar candles appear on the table in lieu of turning the harsh fluorescent kitchen lights.

 Hannibal plates the food on the counter and then brings both over. “Picadillo with Spanish rice and black turtle beans. It’s a traditional Cuban dish, the Spanish _picar_ means to mince.”

 Hannibal takes his seat opposite of Will. “It smells amazing,” Will says, lifting his fork. He knows Hannibal is watching, Hannibal always watches the first bite. Will used to think it was a chef thing, but now knowing Hannibal as he does, he knows it’s something much deeper, more pathological.

 So Will takes his time. He scoops up a generous portion of rice and beans and meat and slides it into his mouth. The flavor, after living so long on canned and partially stale food, bursts on his tongue. He makes a sound of pure enjoyment; the same one Hannibal’s food always inspires.

 “A challenge to work with such limited cookware here, but there is much to be said about authentic ingredients.” Hannibal nods in acknowledgment of Will’s unspoken compliment and then helps himself to the food.

 They normally talk through meals, but Will’s suddenly ravenous, suddenly aware of how little real food he has been getting. He eats quickly, just shy of shoveling the food into his mouth. When he glances up, he sees that Hannibal finds it amusing. He doesn’t have it in him to feel embarrassed, Will is starving and the meat is rich and warm. For once it is also likely not to be human.

 He clears his plate, and before he can figure out how to politely ask if there is any more, Hannibal rises and scoops his plate off the table. The man is only through half of his own food, and the fact that he interrupted his own meal to attend to Will does give him a small sense of shame.

 “It’s delicious, I didn’t realize I was so hungry.”

 Hannibal scoops more rice and meat onto his plate. “I made plenty in expectation of a renewed appetite.”

 The refilled plate is placed in front of Will once more, but this time as Hannibal rounds the table, his fingers slide across the back of Will’s neck. The electricity snaps right back into place between them. Hannibal takes his seat, but his eyes stay on Will.

 Will steadies himself with a deep breath. “And have you any more expectations for this evening?”

 Hannibal drops his eyes, then busies himself with pouring them each a glass of water from the pitcher. “I confess I did entertain plans of dessert.” He looks back up at Will, and in the candlelight his eyes are very black.

 “And I shouldn’t ask.” Will’s fork spears an olive, but he keeps his eyes on Hannibal.

 “Not if you enjoy the surprise.” Hannibal tilts his glass and sips at the water. Will licks his lips.

 “I do.” It sounds like a confession of something much greater, and the heat in Hannibal’s glance confirms it. Will puts the olive into his mouth to stop anything else that might come tumbling out.

 “Then finish your dinner William.”

 He does, and when they’re both done Hannibal sweeps their dishes off into the kitchen. Normally at this point Hannibal would lead him into the study with a glass of whiskey and a distraction while dessert is finished. A thousand miles away from their old lives they have neither this evening.

 Still, Will takes his glass of water to the couch and attempts to avoid thinking about what’s next. Dessert, yes, and then?

 There’s another candle on the coffee table, and Will retrieves the lighter and lights it. It’s cooling down outside, so he adjusts the curtains as well to let some of the night air in. Their house is needfully isolated, and in the dim lighting it almost reminds him of Wolf Trap. He imagines that if he walked away from it and looked back, it too would look like a boat on the sea.

 From the living room Will tries very hard not to, but he can’t help glancing over at Hannibal in the kitchen. Hannibal is also wearing a well-used tee-shirt and jeans, and the sight is still so unnatural it plucks at his attention. The whole place is so similar and so different at the same time that it feels as though Will has fallen through a mirror to a parallel life. Here there is bed sharing and threadbare shirts, the anticipation of hunger’s satiation.

 It is as though they broke the ocean’s surface and plunged into an entirely new world.  A new world where only they exist. Here it is impossible that Hannibal will touch him again, and it is impossible that he won’t. Will’s not sure which one is more frightening.

 From the kitchen, the smell of chocolate begins to rise. Will props his feet up on the coffee table and rolls his neck. He’s stiff with nerves, with the heart-pounding thrill that only Hannibal ever seems to inspire. Will has looked into a thousand heads, and has only ever been snagged, truly caught, by this one.

 Hannibal was a perfect trap for him, the kind that not even Jack could see coming. There is a seduction in being seen, in being known for who you really are in the deepest, darkest parts of your soul. There is a helplessness in getting what you have always longed for. Hannibal had known this, had surrendered his freedom on the belief that Will would not abandon what they had shared.

 And despite three years and a marriage, at the first tug of his strings in Hannibal’s direction, Will came running back. Helpless. The truth was a black hole, inescapable and beautiful, horrifying to behold.

 It was as much to blame for tipping them off the cliff as Will’s own hands.

 “Will?” Will blinked back to present, and Hannibal was looking at him. “Is there something you need?”

 Will realized with an embarrassing rush that he’s been staring. Has zoned out watching Hannibal’s backside go through the motions of dessert. “Ah, no. Sorry, zoned out.”

 “My apologies for not providing entertainment,” Hannibal turned away from the stove and wiped his hands on a dishtowel. There was a flat tray that he moved from the stove and slid into the refrigerator. “Those just need a minute to set, perhaps you’d like to share your ruminations?”

 There was something about the quality of the night that Will thought deserved honesty. “I was thinking about the cliff.”

 Hannibal rounded the kitchen counter and walked into the living room. “Do you regret it?”

 Will thought for a moment Hannibal was going to join him on the couch, but he took up the small sofa chair beside the window. He neatly perched on it, one leg crossed. “What would I regret?”

 Hannibal cast a glance around the room, “Oh, perhaps many things, perhaps just one moment. That is the thing about regret, it serves only to highlight our greatest desires. That if we too had the power of God’s hand, how we would have moved the pawns to best serve us.”

 “And you’d like to know if that night fulfilled my greatest desire?”

 Hannibal did not fully turn toward him, but his eyes were ever watchful. “I think it would be useful to know if your ruminations are a cultivation of wish fulfillment.”

 Will laughs, and he hopes his smile isn’t as disgustingly fond as it feels. “Why Dr. Lecter, are you afraid you have left me unfulfilled?”

 From his chair Will watches Hannibal’s expression go absolutely blank. It’s one of Will’s favorite looks, occurring only when Hannibal has been utterly surprised. On anyone else it would be off putting, but Will considers it one of the most human things Hannibal does. “Perhaps,” Hannibal says a moment later, “I am simply concerned about your lack of active choice since that moment.”

 Will leans back against the couch, he’s enjoying this other world where he knows all the cards at hand. “Hannibal, if I didn’t want to be here, I wouldn’t be.” It’s almost silly that he even has to say it, but that’s as close to a question as Hannibal will get. “And my ruminations have a lot more to do with the meaning of this transformation than regret.”

 “Ah,” Hannibal says, leaning ever so slightly back in his chair. “Beautiful, you said.”

 “Yes. It was, it is.” He meets Hannibal’s eyes and then looks away.

 “You wear it well, as I knew you would.”

 “Did you know? All this time?”

 There’s a pinching of Hannibal’s eyebrows and the settling of his shoulders. “I read once of a Sri Lanka flower, the Kadupal, it blooms but one night a year from midnight to dawn and then dies. No one knows what it takes to make such a rare thing bloom, you must only watch and hope that it will grace you with its beauty. That is what you are to me, Will, the rarest of flowers coming into bloom. I could see your potential, but never predict the night of your becoming.”

 The heat floods back to Will’s face. He watches Hannibal watching him, and it’s terrifying but only in its newness. He is not the only one here helpless in front of everything he’s ever wanted.

 “I don’t know how to respond to that,” Will says after the silence has stacked too tall around them.

 Hannibal smiles, dark and hungry. It makes Will think of blood, of Hannibal’s mouth just a breath off his own at the top of the cliff. He would have tasted like copper and electricity and the truth. “Then I think,” Hannibal says, “it is time for dessert.”

 Hannibal unfolds himself from the chair and walks back to the kitchen. Will takes the moment of relief to breathe the thin air of the room. It feels like too much and not enough, and if Hannibal doesn’t break the tension apart soon Will knows he is going to do something truly embarrassing.

 The refrigerator opens and Hannibal takes the tray out. He spends a brief minute plating the dessert, because of course he does, and brings it to the living room. This time he takes up a seat on the couch beside Will, depositing the plate on the coffee table.

 “Chocolate dipped plantain chips with a coconut garnish.”

 “Isn’t it usually strawberries?” Will asks, although the plantains look delicious, half covered in chocolate and coconut shavings.

 “I find that I enjoy the contradictory tastes of sweet and salty to be much more satisfying.” Hannibal leans forward to grab one of the chips off the plate. “May I?”

 He lifts a piece up to Will, the connotation clear. Will doesn’t have the ability to speak with Hannibal leaning into him, watching his mouth avidly. Will parts his lips in answer, and Hannibal slides the dessert in. The moment Hannibal’s fingers touch his mouth, Will has to close his eyes. The sensations are all crashing into each other, overwhelming him.

 His body goes on without him, chewing the plantain chip. It’s delicious, dark sweetness and then pleasantly salty. He makes a small noise of pleasure and the fingers resting against his lips move away. Will opens his eyes, “Delicious.”

 Hannibal takes that as his cue to pick up another and offer it to Will. They go back and forth after that, Hannibal feeding both of them by hand. The chocolate begins to soften a little bit in the heat, and after a few rounds Hannibal’s fingers are smeared dark.

 Feeling bold, Will reaches out and takes Hannibal’s hand, guiding his messy fingers into Will’s mouth. He tongues at the pads of Hannibal’s fingers, they’re sweet and then beneath, a taste that he imagines is just Hannibal’s skin. When the chocolate is gone he leans back, making eye contact with Hannibal as the fingers slip out of his mouth.

 “You,” Hannibal breathes, the tip of his finger rubbing against Will’s lower lip, “Are absolutely maddening.”

 When the finger pulls away, Will licks his lips for the lingering taste. “Hasn’t this gone on too long?”

 Hannibal wavers closer to him, then pulls back a little, as if catching himself. “You deserve a proper courtship.”

 Will smiles and tilts his head down to look up through his eyelashes, “What is it you think we’ve been doing for the last five years Doctor?”

 Hannibal licks his own lips, his eyes flickering between Will’s mouth and eyes. _“William.”_

It’s a plea, a sliver in Hannibal’s self-control that sends spikes of shivers up Will’s arms. “Yes?”

 Hannibal takes a moment to gather himself, and Will can taste the edge of his patience. He wants more than anything to push Hannibal over it. He knows with a tried certainty that they will survive the plunge.

 “I need you to be certain,” Hannibal’s hand shifts to cover Will’s own on his thigh. “There will be no escape after this, no half measures, you will be mine.” The hand tightens around his, hot and branding.

 As if Will has been anything else from that first conversation. Escape has always been impossible, he can no more escape Hannibal than he can himself. Maintaining eye contact, Will leans ever so closer and breathes, “I already am.”

 There’s a moment of in-between, the last moment Will will ever have to contemplate purgatory, and he finds there that he has no regrets. Then the moment snaps, and between one breathe and the next Hannibal moves forward to claim him.

 The moment their lips meet, Will is subsumed. A sound escapes him that can’t be categorized, is unrecognizable to even Will. Hannibal’s hands move to his face, holding him, tender and firm. He descends on Will like nightfall, pressing him down onto the couch. Hannibal kisses his lips, down across his cheek and jaw, and then back up to his mouth when Will makes an agonized noise.  

 Their mouths meet again, and this time Will opens his mouth, he wants Hannibal to take him, wants to be consumed by him.

 Hannibal takes his time, licking over Will’s bottom lip before dipping inside for the barest of tastes before pulling back. He peppers kisses to the corner of Will’s mouth, across his cheek again, and then comes back to slide his tongue across Will’s bottom lip. Will gasps and gets just a moment of Hannibal sliding his tongue in, slicking against Will’s own. And it’s not enough, it’s just a tease that spins the frantic need inside Will higher and higher.

 “Haa—“ Is all the whining that Will can get out between the kissing. He clutches at Hannibal’s shirt to pull him closer, to prevent Hannibal from getting away. The heat is building, trickling down Will’s insides to pool between his legs. He’s hard, he’s so hard, and Hannibal just keeps playing with him. He kisses softly, taking tiny laps into Will’s mouth, and Will feels certain that this is what is going to finally kill him. He makes another sound the next time Hannibal pulls back, this one cracks in the middle.

 But _God_ , the look on Hannibal’s face is pure hunger. The man slides one hand up to Will’s hair and grabs a tuft of curls. He tugs gently, tilting Will’s head. Will opens his mouth to ask, to plea or curse or cry, but then Hannibal returns to him.

 When their mouths slot together this time, it is nothing short of plundering. Pressure and slick spit, Hannibal kisses him so hard it makes his head spin. If before was foreplay, this is sex. It’s stomach squirming how intimate it feels with Hannibal’s tongue rolling against his.

  _Christ_ , he loves it. He doesn’t ever want to stop.

 It goes on for a while, spreading slowly to the rest of their bodies. Will begins to push at Hannibal, first with his chest, and then with his hips. Hannibal in turn pushes back, keeping Will pinned down to the couch. It isn’t quite frottage, their legs are all tangled and unaligned. Will just needs to get closer to Hannibal, to find some way to press past the boundaries of his own skin.

 When breathing eventually does get difficult, Hannibal pulls back. He doesn’t go far; they’re still practically breathing into each other’s mouths. “Will,” he says, his voice is wrecked.

 Will smiles, punch-drunk and pleased. He unclenches one hand from Hannibal’s shirt and reaches up to push the bangs out of Hannibal’s eyes. “Hi.”

 “Hello there,” Hannibal says against his lips.

 Will wonders if he looks as undone as Hannibal does, mouth swollen, hair in disarray. By the expression on Hannibal’s face, he surely does. He licks his lips and they feel sore, well used. He likes it. He especially likes the way Hannibal’s eyes follow the motion.

 “I think,” Will says, running his finger idly down those impressive cheekbones, “that you should take me to bed.”

 There’s a moment where Will thinks Hannibal is going to bring up the courtship thing again, so he bites his bottom lip and sort of wriggles beneath the man. He knows Hannibal can feel his hardness pressing against his thigh, as surely as he can feel Hannibal’s against his side. Hannibal’s breath stutters out, his hand in Will’s curls clenches, and Will knows he has him.

 “Whatever you wish,” Hannibal says, and removes his hand. He rises all at once, disgustingly graceful, and adjusts his jeans. Will tries not to stare and fails spectacularly. “Darling,” Hannibal says, offering a hand.

 This, of all things, induces a blush in Will. He drags his eyes off the stiff shape of Hannibal’s cock, to the proffered hand. When he takes it, Hannibal pulls him gently to his feet and stamps an affectionate kiss to the bow of Will’s lips.

 Hannibal pulls Will around the coffee table, picking up one of glass candles on the way. Will follows suit when they bypass the kitchen table to the bedroom. Both candles are deposited on the table beside the bed, lighting the room in a flickering yellow glow.

 Beside the bed, Will turns to face Hannibal. He thinks he should feel nervous, but all he feels is warm, awash in the anticipation of Hannibal’s hands on him.

 “I considered this moment a great many times, but never did I truly believe I would stand before it.”

 “Is it living up to your expectations?”

 Hannibal steps in closer, his arms encasing Will. “You should know,” Hannibal says, nuzzling against Will’s ear, “that you always exceed my wildest imaginings.”

 Will hums in return, leaning further into Hannibal.

 Hannibal’s hands move down his back in a caress, touching at the hem of his shirt. He kisses at the shell of Will’s ear. “May I?” He asks.

 Will sighs an affirmation, his hands holding at Hannibal’s waist.

 As before, Hannibal takes his time here too. He savors. The shirt slides up in slow increments as his hands map out Will’s stomach. He punctuates this with sucking kisses along Will’s ear and neck. When he reaches the scar he pauses, pulling his mouth from Will’s throat so he can get a look at it. Reverently his fingers follow the puckered scar tissue one way and then the other.

 Because Hannibal is looking down and not at Will’s face, Will takes the opportunity to study him. For a man who seems so unhuman at nearly every other moment, here with Will he is a mess of emotion. It’s fascinating. He can tell Hannibal likes the mark on Will’s skin, both for possessive and prideful reasons, but is troubled by the memory surrounding it. His eyes flicker up to Will’s and then back down, gauging whether or not it’s still a sensitive subject. Will sees fear, insecurity. Not a lot, this is Hannibal they’re talking about, but some. Filigree cracks where Will has changed him.

 Hannibal’s hands move away then, shifting further up suddenly. Will feels that dash of guilt. Hannibal lifts the rest of the shirt and Will holds up his arms to assist. It comes off and drops to the floor. Hannibal’s hands fall back to Will’s chest, one resting right over his heart. Inside his ribcage his heart pulses. Love.

 Hannibal runs his fingers up Will’s shoulders and then down his arms, circling his wrists for but a moment and then taking his hands. They’re warm, solid, and around them the room fills with the memory of Bedelia saying, _c_ _ould he daily feel a stab of hunger for you, and find nourishment at the very sight of you?_

Hannibal meets his eyes and Will sighs a breath.

  _Yes._

 “Hannibal,” Will says.

 He is shades of all the black they’ve spun together. Adoration. Dedication. Fear. If there ever was a moment to break Hannibal, Will knows this is it. If this man is a monster, then Will is the keeper of a beast’s heart. It is his alone to shelter or shatter, and Hannibal will do nothing to stop it. After the cliff, there is nothing Hannibal wouldn’t give him. His love, his liberty, his life, it all lies before Will like offerings at a feast.

 He takes Hannibal’s hands and places them at the waistband of his jeans. “Please.”

 When Hannibal pops the button on his jeans, Will reaches up and pulls him in for a bruising kiss. Hannibal is mumbling something, but the words are crushed in the onslaught of Will’s desire.

 The match strikes fresh between them. It takes mere moments for the rest of Will’s clothes to disappear, Hannibal’s follow shortly thereafter. Hannibal takes his mouth, touching him everywhere with sweeping, broad hands. Will’s skin buzzes in the wake, up his ticklish sides, across the pale undersides of his arms, and to the dimple dips on his lower back.

 They step clumsily out of boxers together, and then Hannibal is right back in his space, pressing and kissing and grasping at Will. Will laughs drunkenly into a kiss and then pulls at Hannibal in signaling the bed.

 Hannibal lets him go as little as possible to lie down on the comforter, and quickly follows. Will spreads his legs for Hannibal to lie between them. Their bodies line up now and the sensation is completely different, deeper and electric and—

  _“Ah!”_ Will breaks off a wet kiss to gasp it against Hannibal’s cheek. Hannibal is hard and burning against him, shifting in small quakes of friction. Already Will can feel the wetness of their cocks sliding against each other and leaking.

 Undeterred, Hannibal kisses down his jaw and takes up sucking at his throat once more.

 Will writhes beneath him, moaning at the sensation. “Ha—ah, so—“ He’s clawing at Hannibal’s back, trying to get leverage with his feet to press up into that hot sticky mess between them. “Fuck.”

 Hannibal hums against his neck. One of his hands pets down Will’s slide as though to soothe him, but it leaves a molten trail behind. “Shall we?”

 The whisper in Will’s ear is filthy, and he isn’t sure how Hannibal has once again gained control. Everything in his head is disordered buzzing between the sparking of Hannibal’s teeth on his neck and his cockhead grinding against Will’s. He wants, God how he wants. Anything. Everything.

 Hannibal pulls his mouth off of Will’s skin, and in a moment of clarity, Will knows. He cranes his head up to put his lips to Hannibal’s earlobe, “I want,” Will breathes, grazing teeth across the sensitive cartilage, “you inside me.”

 If he wasn’t so aroused, the way that Hannibal blanks upon hearing this would amuse him. As it is he uses the moment to accent his request with an undulation of his hips and a gratuitous moan.

 Hannibal’s hands, one at his hip and one under his shoulder, bind tight. He pulls back to see Will’s face, and in the candlelight his eyes are pure black, “You will be the death of me.”

 Will leans up and pecks him on the lips, coy. “Is that a yes?”

 For once, Hannibal doesn’t search for words, but closes the distance again and kisses Will. He tongues into Will’s mouth and answers with a slick taste of _yes, yes, yes._

 When they part for air, Hannibal props himself up on his elbows above Will. They both take the opportunity to look down between them. Hannibal’s cock is slightly larger, but Will is by far the messier of the two of them. Will runs his fingers in the precome mixing on his belly, and then tentatively touches the slickness to Hannibal’s abdomen. Hannibal huffs a breath, but does not say anything.

 Will’s never done this with another man, never felt inclined to. But now, here with Hannibal, he is enraptured. Hannibal is uncut, and that’s an interesting difference from his own. He touches the excess skin, then curls his fingers around it pulling the foreskin up over the head and then back down. The head is red and shiny, absolutely obscene the way it pushes through the foreskin when Will’s fingers glide down. Above him Hannibal is breathing audibly, trying desperately not to move and let Will have this moment of exploration.

 But as soon as the thought occurs, Will wants to push. He wants to shatter that meticulous control. He slides his fingers back up to the slit, eyeing the drop of precome that oozes there. Slowly he scoops it with his finger, and under Hannibal’s watchful eyes, brings it to his mouth.

  _“Dieve mano.”_

Before Will can even remove his finger, Hannibal is back in his mouth, tonguing after the bitter taste, practically groaning into him. One of Hannibal’s hands shifts down and grasps their cocks together. At the first tight jerk, Will answers with a responding moan.

 “Please,” Will gasps between kisses as Hannibal’s hand works them tightly. He’s not going to last, he knows he won’t, and he desperately wants the closeness of Hannibal inside him. They’ve been doing this dance for so long now and he wants to know, he wants to feel that thing they had on the cliff side.

 “Yes… of course…. Will,” Hannibal is mumbling these things between kisses, his hand slowing on both of them. It’s relief and agony at the same time when Hannibal finally takes his hand away. “Just a moment _mano meile.”_

 And then before Will can ask for a translation, Hannibal has torn himself up off him and disappeared from the bed.

 The cold that rushes in is shocking and confusing, and Will is stunned into silence. Where has Hannibal gone? The blood that rushes to his brain to try and help him is dizzying. He opens his mouth to call for Hannibal.

 But then the man is back, naked and dreamlike in the yellow light. In his hand is a small bottle that clicks inside Will’s head as lubricant.

 This addition does shake a laugh out of him as Hannibal climbs back onto the bed and settles between Will’s legs. “So all that talk about courtship, but you bought lube today when you went out?”

 Hannibal tries for a blank look, but his dark eyes are mischievous. “I thought it best to be prepared for any eventuality.”

 “Oh my God,” Will turns his head to deflect a kiss onto his cheek. “You really are the worst.”

 Hannibal kisses down his throat again, over what surely must be a series of wicked hickey for the soreness. “Would it help if I said I bought first aid supplies, and lubricant was part of that shopping list.”

 Will feels blindly down to Hannibal’s hand with the lubricant bottle. “This,” he pulls it up to gesture in front of Hannibal’s face, “is not first aid lubricant.” The bottle is large, and although it is in Spanish, it is definitely for sexual aid.

 “Perhaps I was hopeful.” Hannibal murmurs into his ear. The playful ire is already fading for Will, and when Hannibal grinds down against him, it is swept away entirely.

 “You,” Will says, but it breaks on a groan when Hannibal bites at his collarbone.

 “I,” Hannibal says, followed by a snap of a cap, “am only ensuring that,” he mouths down to Will’s nipple, tongue flickering over the sensitive bud. Will arches and his cock slides hard against the ridge of Hannibal’s. “That,” Hannibal huffs a breath, “you get what you want darling.”

 Will has a hand in Hannibal’s hair, and Hannibal is moving over to nibble at his other nipple. “Fuck,” Will says, “Fuck.”

 “Mmm,” Hannibal mumbles against his skin. One hand has snuck down between Will’s thighs and is pressing them out further. Will’s never been spread before, never been _opened_. His heart batters in his chest at the thought. He’s so tense, so aroused that the first touch of Hannibal’s hand at his balls nearly draws a sob from him.

 Hannibal shushes him and continues to move down his body at a glacial pace. He kisses and sucks at random patches of skin, twice if he gets a reaction out of Will. The hand between Will’s legs plays with Will’s balls, pressing and gently pulling. He smooths long fingers over Will’s perineum but avoids his cock entirely, and Will is almost glad of it. He feels so on edge, so ready to come that it wouldn’t take much. Just the feeling of those fingers, smoothing around the base of his cock and then down, down again, is sending pulses of heat through him.

 “Now,” Hannibal says when his mouth meets the crease of Will’s leg, “Shall I open you up?”

 Will huffs out a noise, struck by the thickness of Hannibal’s accident around the question. “Please.”

 Hannibal presses one of his thighs further apart, and when Will looks down he meets Hannibal’s eyes staring at him from between his legs. Those dark eyes look down, look at the core of him, and Will feels like he might combust.

 A slick finger, Hannibal’s finger, touches at his hole.

 Will falls back against the mattress, eyes pinched shut against the overwhelming experience of Hannibal circling that most private part of himself. He’s barely even touching and it’s tearing Will apart. “Breathe,” Hannibal advises, and he does in and out and in and—

 Air gushes from his lungs when Hannibal pushes the tip of one finger into him. It’s a strange sensation, discomforting, but also tangled tightly with arousal. Will can see how people do this, how the sharp pain starts tripping the wire with pleasure. He focuses on the breathing, on that pulsing fire that’s lighting him up every time he thinks about Hannibal, _Hannibal_ , pressing his thighs apart and _seeing him_.

 Time sort of distorts then, as Hannibal presses his finger deeper into Will. He begins kissing once more at Will’s hip, this time murmuring calming nonsense into his skin. The pain spikes and dissolves, over and over, plucked apart by the sucking hickies along his hip and Hannibal thumbing at his nipples.

 Will’s mouth begins saying things at the same point his body begins to move with Hannibal’s ministrations. He’s repeating _more,_ and _please_ , and _Hannibal,_ between cries and fractured sibilants. There are two fingers inside him now, Hannibal is fucking him, scissoring them in and out of him slowly. Will tries to imagine Hannibal’s cock inside him, and clenches down around the fingers without thought.

 Hannibal says something in another language that sounds like a curse. Will opens his eyes and looks down. When Hannibal’s eyes flicker up from watching himself open Will, he looks completely ruined.

 “You are so beautiful,” Hannibal says.

 Something inside Will wobbles at this, and tears begin to prick at his eyes. The pain recedes further even as Hannibal pushes in with three fingers. Something greater is pushing forward, cracking open Will’s chest in a way he has never experienced.

 Hannibal begins a fluent running dialogue of Lithuanian. Must be, Will doesn’t think it sounds like French or Italian. He scrapes teeth against the bruises on Will’s hip, and glides his fingers in and out of his hole. Will is being drawn with every push and pull closer to some kind of break. He needs, he knows with a terrifying certainty all of a sudden, that he needs Hannibal close to him when it happens.

 The cap of the bottle snaps again, and Will realizes that he’s been saying that all aloud, that his confession has Hannibal lurching up from his position between Will’s legs. The fingers are gone then, and Will is slick and empty in a way that’s jarring and wrong.

 “I wanted to taste you, to take more time, but,” Hannibal comes back up to his face, touching Will’s cheek with his clean hand, “I can see we are very close to the undertow now.”

 Will doesn’t know what he’s talking about until Hannibal is swiping the tears from Will’s face, pressing the forefinger into his mouth. He doesn’t know when or why he started crying, but can feel the pressure behind it, the panic that it will soon overtake him. Will’s leg’s slide around Hannibal’s waist, needing him closer, needing something that surely only Hannibal can give him.

 “Are you ready, darling?”

 Will’s throat is clogged and heavy, he doesn’t know how to even express what is happening. Instead he tips his head and kisses Hannibal’s thumb.

 Hannibal takes another moment to slick himself and then lines up against Will. There is pressure, a deep bass note of heat and pain as Hannibal pushes the head in through the tight ring of muscle. Here too he takes his time, millimeters at a time while kissing Will’s mouth and cheeks and jaw. Tears burst again from Will’s eyes, but they’re not all from the stretch of it. Hannibal waits for Will to breathe every so often, using his spare hand to pet soothing lines down his flank.

 It all blurs together though, a moment and a lifetime collapsed together, until Hannibal’s hips meet the back of Will’s thighs and he is seated completely inside Will. Will breathes around the thing in his throat and Hannibal, in a moment of complete unrefinement, wipes his sticky and lubricated hand on the bedsheets to clean it off.

 Will hiccups on a laugh that’s almost a sob and grips Hannibal’s neck to pull him down.

 There they kiss once, then twice.

  _“Mano meile,”_ Hannibal says against his lips.

 “What?” Is all that Will can get out. He feels broken and solid finally, fractured but held together by the weight of Hannibal’s chest and the arms that bundle around him.

 “My love,” he says and kisses Will again.

 Will blinks out more tears, can’t find the words to explain the giant emotion that is breaking him apart. Love sounds pithy, too small to contain what they have.

 “I know,” Hannibal says, as though Will said any of that aloud. “I know. Don’t worry, let me.”

 Hannibal then slides his hands down to the backs of Will’s thighs and hikes him up and closer. The cock inside Will pushes further, brushes against something that must be his prostate, because it feels like an explosion up his spine.

 Will’s mouth must convey it, because Hannibal makes a responding sound, pressing nails into Will’s thighs.

 Hannibal pulls back and slides in again. The sound is wet, obscene. There’s pain and pressure, but they’re undercut by the sizzling shocks of Hannibal glancing at his prostate. His brain is awash in chemicals, in the need of Hannibal as close as he can possibly be.

 Will clutches and pets at Hannibal’s skin, ignoring their surely aggravated injuries for the sheer pleasure of existence.

 Hannibal is huffing and fucking into him, faster every minute. Their mouths meet every so often, but the kissing is sloppy, mostly breathing and gasping into each other’s mouths. The break is coming, faster and faster with every thrust. Wills wants to reach it, he wants it to go on forever.

 Hannibal is saying something, but it’s so broken that Will can’t get it. He focuses instead on pulling, on meeting Hannibal’s thrusts and bearing down on the place where they meet. Inside his chest his heart is skipping surely, his lungs heaving as they try to keep him conscious, and he’s close, he’s so close—

 “Han—I’m— !” Is as far as he gets because Hannibal slams into him, brutal and too much, making room for himself inside Will and, _God_ it’s beautiful, it’s exquisite. It’s the collapse of two stars into a black hole and—

 The sound that rips from Will’s throat is foreign to even Will. Hannibal shoves in one last time and Will begins to come. It’s untouched, pulsing in his very bones as Hannibal continues to fuck him. It goes on and on, as sweet as a hunt, as his blade going into the Dragon beneath the moonlight. When he catches Hannibal’s eyes above him, he knows they are in the same place, occupying the same current. Hannibal’s rhythm stutters and the man shudders, coming with a growl deep inside Will.

 Everything around Will blanks, hazy and perfect. Will himself is torn asunder. Erasure, where none of Will exists, cannot possibly exist after such an event. He’s been all burned up, ash and carbon and smoke, and when he blinks his eyes open again it is the candle beside the bed he sees first.

 Hannibal’s face is tucked into his neck on the other side and Will can feel his breath against the sweat. Hannibal is still inside him, whole and close and Will gets misty-eyed just thinking about how perfect the moment is.

 Although hot. Beneath Hannibal he is still burning, not quite ash, but certainly embers.

 Hannibal hums something and then gets one arm back under himself to push himself up off Will’s chest, not yet separating them. Colder air rushes into the space, which feels lovely, and allows him to see Hannibal’s face.

 He’s gorgeous, wrecked and remade with what Will hopes is pieces of himself. There are tears in his eyes, and Will reaches up to touch them when they slide down Hannibal’s cheek. “Hi,” he says with a soft smile.

 Hannibal smiles with the wrinkles of his eyes, the openness of which devastates Will’s heart. “Hello,” Hannibal says.

 “We should shower,” Will says.

 “Yes.”

 Already Hannibal is softening, Will frowns at the thought of not being connected. “I don’t want you to leave me.” The words slip out.

 They both hiss at the over sensitivity when Hannibal has to draw his hips back. They roll simultaneously to their sides to avoid pressure on their groins. Here, Hannibal gathers Will close again, his hands on Will’s face. “I am not going anywhere. Ever.”

 Will leans forward to kiss Hannibal gently. His lips are sore, overused. Still the smell of sweat and sex on Hannibal is reassuring. Will wants to say so much more, the sentiment is all clattering about in his brain, but he doesn’t know what.

 “You are mine,” Hannibal goes on, combing gentle fingers through Will’s hair, “And I am yours. I cannot unsee you any more than you can me. I live forever with the knowledge that there is nothing greater out there for me. You, dear William, the bloom to my ever-watching eye.”

 Will ducks his head into Hannibal’s chest and rubs his face against the sweat there. He places a kiss on Hannibal’s collarbone, above his heart. “You sentimental old man.”

 Hannibal squeezes him and presses a kiss into Will’s hair. “It is hard not to be in the face of such beauty.”

 Will closes his eyes, breathing in the warmth of Hannibal’s chest. His own still flutters, the shatter settling back into place with pieces of Hannibal. Oh, surely there are still wounds left to heal, stitching left to mend, a whole world left that they must build around them.

 But now, on the other side of the mirror, they are building it together.

 Will listens to Hannibal’s heart beating, his breath slowing, and feels for once as though he has been made whole.

 

**Author's Note:**

> I've never written Hannibal before, so I hope I did them justice. Happy Holidays!


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